


Radical Violence and Other Fairytales

by queenofthecon



Series: Negan/Mallory [2]
Category: The Walking Dead (Comics), The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Affairs, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gangsters, F/M, Organized Crime, Smut, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-05-31 10:44:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19424377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofthecon/pseuds/queenofthecon
Summary: It was meant to be a new beginning, a way of packing up what was meaningless and giving over everything in the name of real love. It didn't matter who Philip Blake was, or who he worked for, or who he hurt. It only mattered that there was someone, anyone, who finally made her happy, who could stop the fear. Mallory thought their relationship was all she could ever want until she meets their next door neighbour and her whole world opens up in new, terrifying ways.A Negan/OC AU. Slow burn baby. Slow. Burn. A companion AU toOn the Man who Made Malice.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure anyone asked for this, or if anyone remembers my first Walking Dead fic, [On the Man who Made Malice](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8755555/chapters/20069791). For the last few months, I've been trying to get back into writing and have hit a lot of stumbling blocks called life and lack of original ideas. But I think there's something here worth exploring so rather than writing a sequel, I'm throwing up this AU in the hopes that something sticks. I've missed writing so fucking much, kids. Thanks for bearing with me on the rocky road.
> 
> Oh and I stole the title for this from myself. That's not plagiarism, is it?

May 2019.

_The coffee should have been warmer than this, considering where she was sitting and who had handed it to her. There was a faint smell smoke lingering on the cop’s clothes like this was some shitty, cliché interrogation scene and she was the evil, no-good criminal. In retrospect, she probably was._

_Trying to ignore the intense pain in her shoulder, Mallory wondered what kind of interrogation it was going to be this time. Would this guy try and rattle her more than she already was, or would he be kind and say sympathetic bullshit to make her feel ingratiated, protected, like there were no such things as consequences if you told them everything and sang like a bird. He’d always told her the techniques these people used; from the fake nice, boring ones who called you sweetheart or honey, to the hot-headed rookies and old schoolers looking for a little glory, to prove they still had worth – the goal was still the same. Keep the witness warm, make them comfortable, safe, unthreatened. It caught a lot of people off-guard, at least the ones who weren’t brought up around it. But Mallory had been taught to watch out for signs, how to spot the Greeks bearing gifts. That’s all this life had turned out to be; a load of bullshit wrapped in a shiny package of everything you could ever need._

_The cop who’d given her the coffee looked even younger than her. Probably got stuck with the shit duty, interviewing someone who wasn’t even under suspicion, the battered wife who couldn’t wait to run her mouth and have someone save her from a life within the bowels of organised crime. Shit out of luck there, kid. Still. At least the coffee was both lukewarm and burnt at the same time. Figured he didn’t even know to get her the good stuff._

_And why did fluorescent lights have to hum like that? Some things didn’t change._

_“Are you sure you don’t want a change of clothes, ma’am?” the cop asked. Barnes. His name was Barnes, she thought. “You look a little pale.”_

_“I’m fine,” Mal replied politely as she could muster, trying to think of anything but the lingering waves of pain in her shoulder or the storm to come. “Just, can we get this over with? Please.” She asked quietly, playing it up. “I just wanna go home.”_

_The kid, Barnes, looked her up and down as quick as anything, seemingly resigned to not getting to interview the big bad boss. “Whatever you say, Mrs Blake. Won’t be much longer wait, I’m sure.”_

_Mallory’s tired, green eyes snapped into life. Her palms were trying to eek every bit of warmth left in the coffee. “I’m not… we’re not… I’m sorry, what am I waiting for?”_

***

March 2018

The back yard was immaculate, the pool crystalline and sparkling, and the old grill burned bright with coal-fire, almost ready to turn a perfect ashy black. It was warm, unseasonably so for spring, and the smoke rising straight up from the heat of the fire was pushed away with a gentle wave of fresh air, so the smell didn’t linger. The house was as spotlessly clean as Mallory was willing to make it; considering there were still moving boxes in the garage from a few weeks ago. One day, she was sure she’d sort those out and unpack her eighth grade science trophy about mitochondria. It absolutely went with the décor, no matter what her fiancé said. Her PowerPoint work on microbiology was unparalleled to this day.

No, by all accounts, nothing about the party was going to be bad, apart from the strangers in her home. Why did parties have to get ruined by _people_ being there? The idea made her want to curl back into bed and pretend she was sick. It counted, right? Anxiety of talking to strangers, getting to know the neighbours? He’d insisted they try, and she was nothing if not a sucker for one Mr Philip Blake, charm personified.

The man at the grill, her man, stood with an easy grin on his face and a spatula in his hand, poised and ready like he was going to war. He was wearing chinos, for God’s sake, it had to be a special occasion. “Everything going okay, honey?” Philip asked over the sound of the speakers blaring his favourite old bluesy music, peppered with perky jazz riffs here and there. She’d managed to talk him out of playing Chopin until the sun went down at least; the neighbours were wealthy but nobody in Virginia listened to Chopin… did they?

“Much as I can manage, I think. 28 years old – you’d have thought I’d held a real grown-up party by now,” Mallory replied, smiling softly as she set down a tray of hamburgers next to her handsome fiancé. His hair really glowed golden in the spring sunshine, so much that she couldn’t see any greys and he hated when she saw those. “You need me to get you anything before I finish setting up inside? I put the desserts in the fridge for now, and there’s a couple extra cases of beer in the fridge chilling down good…”

“Beer!” Philip said suddenly, as if she’d reminded him they had any. “I would kiss your feet if you got me a few cold ones, keep the sweat off my skin while I’m grilling up a storm.” He’d already laid a few patties out on the bars like shingles, lined up exactly straight because she knew he loved the uniformity of it. Part of her thought he’d picked this street because all the houses looked the same. At least, apart from the one to their right – that neighbour needed a lawnmower before the rain came back.

Mallory hummed thoughtfully and slid behind him: her arms wrapped delicately around his stomach until her face was pressed into his shoulders, her wavy auburn hair crushed as she squeezed. He just looked so happy, relaxed, normal; she couldn’t keep herself from holding onto the image of him so carefree, so pleased to just be here with her, living in the moment. The effort of the move, his job… it would be worth it, in the end; they’d make this a home, make it theirs. She had to.

“Beer? I don’t know about that. You didn’t even say please,” Mal grinned into his shoulders, the cement hot on her bare feet as she squeezed him. “Wanna try again?”

Those delicate fingers of hers ran over his stomach experimentally, pushing under his shirt until she could feel the twitch of his taut muscles. He was soft and warm and smelled good considering the smoke and the warmth from the fire.

Sighing dramatically in defeat, Philip ran one hand along the arm currently wrapped around his waist. “Please could my beautiful, hard-working woman go grab me an ice cold beer to soothe this raging heat I’m feeling?”

“Oh yeah there’s raging heat, alright,” Mal teased, leaning up a little and tilting her head to give him a sloppy, wet kiss on the cheek. “I’ll get you a couple to keep you going, can’t have you getting all dehydrated under this sun.” She reluctantly pulled away from him, stepping onto the manicured lawn next to the pool since the cement was getting too hot to stand on with bare feet. “I just can’t believe you bought PBR for this neighbourhood. Who knew I’d be marrying a man with such bad taste in alcohol?” 

“There’s nothing wrong with PBR, Mallory,” Philip grinned after her, turning his attention to the grill. “It takes a lot to get you drunk on PBR.”

The shake of her head may have been imperceptible but the grin on her face was still beaming brightly. Padding back into the house gingerly over the stone walkway, she snuck a look at him alone in the back yard, focussed only on his grilling skills.

Everything about Philip was purposeful, she’d realised. Even the ring he’d proposed with – a giant, sparkling pale yellow diamond – had been custom made. If Mal angled it right, it reflected a whole rainbow of light on the ceiling and made a white, boring room look like a nightclub. It was beautiful to wear and brought out the warmth in her skin tone and the green in her eyes, he’d said. Not that she’d ask, but Mallory had wondered if he’d planned the proposal since their first date: a ten month-long relationship and he brings out a box with a perfect, flawless, thoughtful ring? It had to have cost more than her first car and student loan repayments combined. There was still no way she’d ever get used to the shifting weight of it on her finger, though. With beautiful things came responsibility, and Mal was so paranoid about it just falling off her hand that she rarely wore it to anything but special events… and when he asked her to wear it in bed. Now _that_ was definitely worth whatever he’d paid for it.

Now was the first time she’d been able to wear the ring out and show it off since their big move to the suburbs. Well, as suburban as he was willing to get in a nice, white picket fenced gated community full of mini mansions, moronic politicians and cheating corporate bankers turning blind eyes. All of them knew who Philip was before he’d even got the key to their new house and she was happy to simply slip in beside him to have a hand to hold. Mallory watched the diamond glint in the sunshine streaming in through the kitchen window. It danced again as she piled a few beer bottles into a bucket full of ice, the glass clinking past the soft background music playing over their system.

Soon enough, multitudes of random people would converge in the usual cliquey groups they’d not grown out of since high school – she’d give almost anything if they didn’t ask her a single question all evening. She hadn’t wanted to go through with this housewarming, welcome-to-the-neighbourhood type thing at all but he’d talked endlessly about it for a week and she’d caved, on the proviso that it wasn’t a fancy affair. It had only been a few weeks of them living in Little White-Picket-Ville and she was already bored with the gossip, with the fake nails and fake smiles of all the other wives around her age. They all just were fake, fake, fake. But he wanted them to like him, she guessed, like he always did. Philip was a born charmer to boot and his silver tongue could make anyone forget what he did for all the things he’d gotten in life. At least, that was what she told herself, that it was earned.

It was a curious thing, Mallory thought. These people – their neighbours – they weren’t really here for food, or to bring out a welcome wagon, or for anything else but to get a good, solid, close-up look at Philip. More than once – fetching the paper, going to the grocery store – she’d heard his nickname said in a whisper behind her back. The Governor. Honestly. It was as if he was a freak show attraction from the Victorian era and she was the tall girl standing in everyone’s way, blocking their ringside view. She was certain that the most gossip they’d had before Mal and Philip had moved in was Mr Williamson running off with his massage therapist, Steven. In comparison, Philip must have been a whole fucking circus. A real life, honest-to-God gangster. The wild stories she’d been told, the warnings people had cooked up to try and get her away from the so-called monster, they didn’t bear repeating.

But the truth was they didn’t know half of it. She did.

Her fingers were the ones that diligently scrubbed tiny red dots from his shirts once a week, the dots he didn’t notice anymore. She was the one he hid his bruised knuckles from, the one who never uttered a word about where all the money had come from. Philip never really talked to her about any of it – about the blood or the cash he tried to hide, about the late night ‘work things’ and the gunpowder smells, about the second cell phone or the third or fourth. He would come home to her, he would hold her tight, and that was all that she gave a damn about. Every outlandish story she’d been told about Philip or his boss, they were all true. And none of it mattered. No amount of blood could stop Mallory from loving him.

Setting the tub of iced beer down at his feet, she smiled. “Don’t linger around here, you gotta come mingle with me,” she pleaded. “I should get the rest of this stuff ready before we end up with a house full of drunk conservatives.”

“That is everyone’s worst nightmare,” Philip agreed, plucking a bottle from the tub of ice and cracking it open on the side of the grill. “Thanks for the beer, honey. You’re an angel.”

“Not entirely,” she replied, unable to keep her smile from fading. “Just wait until everyone goes home, then I’ll really show you how much of a devil I can be…”

“Jesus, woman…” He groaned audibly as she walked away back to their dream home, swaying her hips just a touch.

Her fiancé might be a gangster, an animal, a criminal, whatever they wanted to call him, but she could still make him go weak at the knee. That was power. 

***

There was something magical when early evenings had settled in and everyone was more relaxed, as if there was a switch in their brains that said to calm down, to get comfortable. People were talking happily among themselves, wandering off here and there for a drink or to pick at the desserts nobody apparently liked. All three of their big, soft couches were crammed full of people in conversation among themselves, so absorbed that Mallory had been able to hide in plain sight by Philip’s side all evening. It was getting darker outside, but inside was a flickering light of life she was happy with observing.

Philip had been right about the beer as well. Nobody asked for anything else, generally, and even Mallory felt like it was heaven slipping down her throat: there was an odd whiskey or a gin and tonic in between to keep people happy. Her skin was cooling off nicely, the beer bitter and smooth in its weakness all at once. It helped enormously that she was pleasantly buzzed now, no longer squirming in a pool of pre-party anxiety; he was in full charming gentleman swing, the centre of attention and showing off their beautiful house. Strong, solid fingers flexed on her side as he held her tightly to him in their kitchen, his grip supported by a calloused thumb stroking the skin beneath her shirt. Turnabout was fair play, he’d argued, without any actual disagreement.

The only issue was Mrs McCluskey, who had made it her mission to help Mallory in cleaning up and now refused to go mingle so they could take a minute for themselves.

“Yeah, we’re really happy to be here. It’s a nice neighbourhood, right?” Philip said tactfully, turning to Mal, letting her nod softly before he continued. “No arguments, no tearaway kids, it’s quiet and clean. Great place, really.”

Mrs McCluskey, a soft, petite lady with a rounded face and a habit of butting in, nodded as well, hanging on every word Philip said. “It’s so nice having some young blood around here for once,” she replied. She lived three houses down, retired, and had a grown-up kid still living in her basement. Not that Mallory was nosy, everyone just gossiped so much it was impossible not to listen. “Now you’re all settled, have you two found a date for this wedding yet? I’ll be waiting on my invitation, young lady.”

Ah shit. She wanted to dissolve on the spot while Philip clenched his fingers into her side to help. He tried his best to get her to appear normal, but the wedding had so far been a headache that would not go away. “Uh, well, we haven’t really agreed about a date yet,” Mal replied. “What with the move and all, it’s been hard to figure it out. I’m sure we can sit down and figure out a good time…”

“Give us a few more weeks, Mrs McCluskey. I can guarantee it won’t be much of a wedding without that famous banana cream pie I’ve heard so much about.” Philip said quickly. “I have yet to taste it, but all the neighbours tell me it’s the best pie in the county. You won a ribbon at the fair, didn’t you?”

The old lady blushed pink softly around the cheeks, making her seem impossibly nicer, and practically cooed. “Oh, hush now, it’s just pudding in a pie case, nothing to write home about.”

Philip chuckled too, “Oh come on, you’re holding out on me. You could give Mallory here some tips on her cream pies, right, honey?” He turned to look down at her, barely-wrinkled, bright blue eyes sparkling with mischief under the charm. “She loves making all kinds of cream pies.”

Now it was Mal’s turn to go pink and she swigged down her beer quickly to hide the squeak in the back of her throat. Jesus, Philip knew how to make her squirm. “Oh, sure, sure. Love all kinds of pies.”

“See, you must get in training now for all these baking competitions they’re having these days. Used to be just the annual fair but there’s so many now,” Mrs McCluskey replied, seemingly oblivious. “I’m 78 next year, I can’t keep doing ‘em and Lord knows my girl can’t cook a bean. You know, she still uses pre-made crust at Thanksgiving no less! I do not know where she got that from but it sure as heck wasn’t me. Must have her father’s laziness, that’s for dang sure.”

Mallory nodded along politely, her eyes darting out into the small crowd of people in the living room next door, wondering whether there was an out available for an early exit. She had to get away from Mrs McCluskey as soon as possible, before she invited her to come to bake pies… or be her daughter. You didn’t even have to bake banana cream pie, did you? God, she really didn’t want to go into the living room, though. It would be from a frying pan into a fire.

“Mrs McCluskey, I’m sure Mallory’ll be kind enough to take you up on the offer one day, but I think Mrs Geary wanted to talk to you…” Philip trailed off, nodding over to a corner of the room where another older woman was poking at the dessert table with her nose turned up. Mal sighed internally; she was never going to Kroger again.

“Oh, you’re right, I must go and talk to April about the next knitting club meeting. If she brings in one more 2-ply skein, I will be having some sharp words…” the old lady said, turning and walking towards the dark haired Mrs Geary. “April, stop poking at the poor girl’s tiramisu like it just insulted you! Where are your manners?!”

As she faded from sight and they were left alone in the kitchen, Mallory burst out into hiccup-laughing, pressing her face into Philip’s chest. “Jesus Christ, I thought I was gonna break. You can’t say that to Mrs McCluskey, Philip, she’s like a grandmother! It’s… icky.”

He slid a broad hand down the curve of her ass and squeezed lightly, just a little thrill going through her spine at the motion. “What? I was just talking to some sweet old lady about how much you love cream pies,” he said smoothly, barely able to hold a laugh down while she stifled hers in his shirt. “Am I wrong, Mallory? Do you not like getting cream pies?”

“Not the kind of cream she meant,” Mal replied quietly in a sing-song voice, grinning as she came up for air. “I was seriously about to lose it right in front of her. She must think we’re completely insane, next thing you know, the Neighbourhood Watch will be painting a cross on the front door to ward off the weirdos.”

“Let ‘em,” he retorted with a smug grin as wide as his face. “It’s nice to rattle your cage now and then. You always get quiet when you’re in a room of people you don’t know, like you slip away from me.”

This was the part of him only she ever really got to see, the stupid childish side of him that liked to make her giggle and squirm in equal measure, the side that would torture and tease her. Mirth caught like ripe little bubbles bursting in her throat and Mallory downed the rest of the beer in her hand to drown them, lest she get her own back. He could be so damn serious sometimes, working all goddamn hours no matter what they were doing or where they were, but Philip fucking tried. He tried to make her at ease, to get her talking past the anxiety lump in her throat. Even on the days when she just couldn’t face the world, there never seemed to be guilt or anger on his part, simply an understanding that he wouldn’t push too far too fast.

“I need to get more beer if we’re gonna keep making desserts kinky,” Mallory muttered, wiping the laughter tears out of her eyes as she slipped away from his grip. Her whole body cringed as she saw the current slow bump-and-grinding going on in the living room. “Oh God, someone needs to break up Mr O’Leary and Mrs Carter from… whatever the Hell that is. I am way not drunk enough to be catching them fucking in the hydrangeas at 1am.”

Philip just stared at her, confused. “What’s a hydrangea?”

Mal had a snappy _‘I don’t honestly know’_ on her lips when he suddenly slipped one of his phones from his pants pocket, the screen lighting up for a moment before he turned it away from her by practiced motion. Her stomach fell into itself immediately, a black hole of dread and worry forming. It was one of his work phones – it always was – his boss giving some signal like she was the evil version of the Mayor calling on Superman to save the day. As he clicked the screen back off, the change in him was instant; his eyes lost the laughter, his shoulders tensed as if he was anticipating something. “Go get some more beer, Mallory,” Philip muttered. “I gotta make a call.”

Eyes darting out to the crowd, Philip slid outside into the darkness like a spider retreating to the edge of its web for safety. Nobody would miss him now, except her; they were half drunk and had all gotten to spend time with the local freak show. Mal stared at the back door, just wishing he would come back inside and throw the fucking phone down the garbage disposal once and for all. That particular fantasy never came true.

It was there. She could feel it pulsing at the back of her head, like someone was pressing against her brain until it hurt to look at the ceiling light. A piercing pain. Her jaw clenched for a moment to make it go away but it never did. It’d come back again and again. His work calls had never been as bad as they were now, not since they moved into this house, not since he bought her that ring. It didn’t take a genius to figure out he’d got promoted or whatever the fuck the equivalent was; no matter what was happening, the phone took precedence. It was hard to say anything, not when it could mean life or death. How did you tell your gangster fiancé not to return his boss’s call?

Turning on her heel, she pitched her now empty beer bottle in the recycling with a shattering, satisfying crash, the headache abating as soon as she was out of the light. Everywhere except the living room was quiet and still, but none more than the garage. It had that chill of raw cement and steel, one that never seemed to quite go away even in the height of summer. The whole space was an echoing vacuum for her to hide in without making a sound for any of the guests to hear or disturb her – it wasn’t like they’d miss her for ten minutes or so anyway.

Every wall of their garage had boxes and boxes of junk from the move, all her old life taped up in cardboard because she hadn’t got around to taking it out again and unwrapping everything. She doubted she either of them ever would. Just looking at them made her feel queasy; it was better to keep it boxed up.

Out of the dark, the cold, and the quiet came a deep, drawling voice laced with honey.

“So, this where Blake’s been hiding you?” Turning on her heel from the open fridge, she saw him. A man standing there, tall and relaxed, hands in his jean pockets, leaning against the wall and blocking the light from the door. Mal was half-thinking she was hallucinating. He’d not been at the party, had he? “Heard about him finally settling down, but fuck me, little small-town suburbia came a calling, didn’t it? Never thought he’d come live in a place like this willingly.”

“Sorry,” she replied, completely confused. “If you’re looking for Philip, he’s probably out back on a call, work thing,” she said, ignoring the man and grabbing a couple more cases of beer from the spare fridge. Mallory set them down on the rough floor before pulling out one more case. “I can tell him you’re looking for him if you want…”

The man stepped into the room, slipping the door half-shut behind him. “Nah, you don’t need to bother him on account of me. I might have got around to the shindig a little tardy, everything’s gone out there like goddamn vultures circling the bones. You know you’re out of beer already? If you ain’t careful, might be a riot or something.” His hips swayed as he walked towards her, bending down and picking up two cases of beer, lifting them as if they were nothing. She had to admit, by the look of him – slim cut and narrow in both hips and shoulder – she didn’t think he’d be able to lift two but hey, if he was offering a hand, she wasn’t gonna say no. Mallory noticed his beat-up hands, marred with callouses and a few scars that made them look older than _he_ did – maybe he was a some kind of engineer, the kind that got stuck in, had the oil and dirt under his nails for weeks before bothering to clean them. Certainly, he didn’t seem like much beneath the leather jacket.

“Hey, thanks, that’s real sweet. You don’t gotta help, you’re meant to be a guest,” she said with a polite smile, her eyes a little weary. Okay so maybe she was fucking exhausted.

“No trouble. All of ‘em just animals out there, drinking y’all dry. Secret alcoholism runs wild and fucking rampant in Pleasantville, VA...” he winked softly. “I got you.”

Mallory chuckled despite herself and picked up the other case when he didn’t move for the door, obviously waiting on her to show him the way back. “You noticed that, huh?” she muttered, leading him through the hallway towards the kitchen. “I swear the richer people get, the more they get excited over crappy American beer…”

“It’s because they’re too used to the fucking good stuff to care,” the guy said, his eye quirking as he watched her heave one case when he made two look like sacks of feathers. “Good stuff’s wasted on the rich, it’s like water off a fat duck’s frilly, feathered ass. You give ‘em shit and it’ll be all they talk about for fucking months, trust me.”

Kicking open the door to the kitchen, Mal deposited her case on the marbled island countertop, her hands pink with the weight of it on her skin. “They gonna make fun of me?” she asked, looking up at the man. Shit, what was his name?

Whoever-he-was placed the cases of beers down, ripping the cardboard apart and cracking two bottles open with swift ease and a twist of his calloused fingers. “Nope,” he said definitively, handing her a beer. “It’s more like a… novelty to these people. Trust me, I’ve lived on this street for nearly twenty years, from small families with all their life savings sunk into their houses, all the way down to the rich pricks who repossessed them. Might be the last one on the block who remembers when it wasn’t gated.”

Chuckling a little, Mal leaned back on the kitchen island as the living room roared in laughter next to them. That piercing headache was still coming but she ran a hand over her head anyway to push it from her mind. It was nice to have a distraction from Philip, wondering what he was getting asked to do. Whether she’d even see him for a week or two this time around.

Her hand tilted as she lifted her beer bottle and his gaze went right for her engagement ring before snapping back to her face. “So, you think even these people can class up Coors and PBR?” she asked, a smile playing on her face. The guy was definitely not a PBR man – few were.

“PBR? I haven’t had that for 25 years.” The guy’s face crumpled in exaggerated, rabid disgust, checking the label on his own bottle like he’d just swallowed poison. He’d grabbed the Coors, luckily for him. “Fuck me dickless, that’s almost cruel, feeding these dickheads PBR. Nobody deserves PBR. I know Blake can be a cheap motherfucker, but nobody deserves shit like PBR. You don’t like it, do you?”

“I’m getting used to it. Once you get past the whole weird sour taste, it kinda grows on you,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. The beer and the shots she’d done earlier to calm her nerves must be working if she was giggling at cream pies and actively talking to a strange guy. He had a wedding ring on at least, so maybe he was just being friendly.

Despite this, Mallory looked him up and down because turnabout was fair play. He didn’t look like the rest of them either; the jeans he was wearing were shabby and faded, his leather jacket looked soft and beat in as if he’d worn it every day of his life, and he was sporting a deep five o’clock shadow around his chin that was peppered with grey. She didn’t think she’d seen any of her neighbours in jeans with paint stains and scuffed knees, not even in their front yards on Sunday afternoons. Hell, she was fucking sure Mrs McCluskey wore pearls to do the weeding.

“At least they’re interesting after a few free drinks. Let me take a wild swing in the dark and say you’re not ingratiated with the button-downs either?” she asked, gesturing with the bottle to the somewhat raucous neighbours.

Continuing to smile almost lazily, his gaze wandered out to the crowd slowly before he turned back to look at her, seemingly disinterested in their activities. “You could say that. At least _you’ll_ enjoy living next door to a prick like me, Princess. I’m expecting these fuckers to serve me with a community ordinance violation for not cutting the goddamn grass with scissors every weekend like some fucking psychopath. They all love getting up my ass about it.”

She believed him too. “Better not be seen talking to you then, you’ll tarnish my non-existent reputation.” Mallory titled her head. “Didn’t get your name?”

“Didn’t give it,” he retorted, swigging from the bottle. “I’m Negan,” the man said eventually, though he seemed reluctant for whatever reason. His brown eyes looked into hers for just a moment, like he trying to figure out why she asked. “I’m that way,” he gestured with his thumb to the right side of her house. “Look forward to watching you swim laps in the pool in those string bikini motherfuckers girls wear these days. Been a while since anyone under the age of 65 moved in and unlike you, I do have a reputation to uphold.”

“I’ll make sure to go buy a string bikini, then,” she took a deep swig of her beer before continuing. “Wouldn’t want my only fun neighbour not getting his eyeful every morning. Dues to be paid.” Mallory could see something in this guy. Negan. He was fucking charming too. Maybe it was the drink talking. “But I’m not sure my husband-in-waiting would like it though. He’s uh… one of a kind.”

It might have been her slightly drunken imagination, but she swore Negan choked on his drink a little. He leaned back impossible further against the counter, his elbows propping him up until he was almost horizontal. “I guess it’s best not to fuck with your scary, tough-guy fiancé then. I’m sure he’d have my balls off before I even thought about looking at you,” he smirked as if there was a joke she wasn’t getting.

“He’s not so scary, really,” she said, not even thinking about it. It wasn’t like there was real living people she could talk to about Philip in any depth; her own mother didn’t know much more than his name. “Just kinda… aloof sometimes, gets lost in his head. I fucking love him though, man.”

A relaxed, easy smile came over Negan and he tipped the neck of the bottle towards her. “Jesus fucking Christ, that was sweet. Ruined my fucking chances about stealing you away from him in the middle of the night.”

Her brow furrowed a little and she licked her lips. That was definitely a fucking wedding ring on his finger. Was that one of those open marriages?

“And what about that?” she asked, gesturing to his left hand. “You wife might not approve of you clubbing the neighbour’s fiancé over the head and dragging her back to your cave.”

His eyes seem to go distant for a flash of a moment. “Gonna be hard for her to argue about it. She died six months ago.” Negan swallowed thickly before looking down at the floor. “Been a while since I did anything but get blind drunk and gamble on Mets games.”

Oh, fucking right on fucking schedule. Mallory had put her foot in the mud again.

“Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t know…” she muttered, the guilt and anxiety creeping back into the frame. “That’s fucked up.” Her eyes went wide, and the ground refused to swallow her whole. “I’m sorry.”

Negan’s lips upturned a little at the corners though it didn’t catch her as genuine. “Don’t be sorry, just don’t. It was all good in the end. I loved the ever-loving shit out of her til the sun burned out of the sky. Nobody tells you what to do after, though. Thought I’d come here, check out the new talent. Not disappointed so far.”

Mal was a little dumbstruck, wondering how you moved on from the whole ‘my wife’s dead, thanks for the reminder’ thing. “I… don’t know what to say.”

“Well, we could go back to flirting like dumb kids. I haven’t done that in 25 years either.” He suggested, making her cheeks turn pink at the sides. “Yeah that’s better. Maybe I still got some life left in me after all, huh? Your fiancé’s older than you, right? How’d he land a such stone cold fox?”

Cringe-worthy descriptor aside, she shrugged her shoulders. “It’s kinda… dumb. I don’t know.” She wasn’t sure she could pour her heart out to a man whose heart was recently broken. It seemed indecently decadent. “We just met in a bar; you know. Usual way.”

“Bar, huh…” Negan’s eyes furrowed. “Great fucking romance of the century there then.”

“Not like that,” she said, shaking her head a little bit. “I was studying for a nursing degree, working on placement, lived in scrubs, trying to make ends meet you know? So, I picked up a little gig as a singer on my nights off.”

“You sing?” he asked, his tone surprised.

She chuckled, “Nobody’s offering me a recording contract, but I can hold a few notes. I was just furniture mostly. It was one of those fancy bars up in the city and he was there every night I was, listening to me sing. He actually stopped entire conversations just to listen. Clapped loudest too.”

“Isn’t this the plot of Copa Cabana?” he muttered.

“This went on for a like month, like clockwork,” she went on, ignoring him. “Philip would come listen to me the two days a week I’d be there. I guess that was all it took. I loved him before he’d even said a word to me. Six months later, I’d quit nursing and moved into his place. About two months after that, he asked me to marry him.”

“And you said yes?” Negan probed.

Her eyes rolled. “No, I turned him down,” Mal replied sarcastically. “I just get to live here, keep the ring, and get to sleep with him. It works awesomely in my favour when you think about it.”

Negan laughed uproariously next to her, his face cracking into deep lines. “Fuck, can I get in on that? What if I bought you a Mercedes?”

She grinned too, tipping her bottle towards him. “Make it a Harley and you got a deal.”

“I’ll call my guy in the morning,” he grinned, the last of his laughter dying out. “Where is your Romeo then? I haven’t had a chance to meet the man who’s got it all.”

Right. Philip. How long had he been on the phone for? She’d lost all sense of worry about him, talking to Negan like he was an old friend, at least until she’d made a mess of it halfway through. “I’m not sure, he took a phone call like a half hour ago maybe. Some work emergency, I don’t know. I should go check since it’s been a while…”

“No, no, no, stay and drink with me. Come on, he’s probably fine,” Negan muttered softly, almost kindly. “Just got his balls in his boss’s hand for now, giving ‘em a squeeze. Promise you’re safe with me, probably more so than the pencil-dick pervert from the end of the block on your couch.”

Mallory scoffed at the idea of that one; her fiancé was a fucking gangster and it seemed like everyone knew. She was safer than if he were a cop, but it didn’t mean she couldn’t take care of herself either. “Like to see ‘em try, I’d have their elbows dislocated in like a second. I took taekwondo as a kid, I got skills.”

He snorted inelegantly, his smug grin splitting his handsome face. “Wow, wow, wow, wow. Yeah, really impressive to retain a fuck lot of knowledge over the last, what, _five_ years? How old are you, anyway, like 23, 24? I got dryer lint older than you.”

Did that even count as backhanded flattery? “I’m 29 in November. And I took taekwondo when I was eight, for like three years, so I can do some serious damage.”

“Looks like you could,” he winked salaciously. “I’d run away from you down a dark alley late at night.”

“Fuck yeah you would,” she clinked her bottle with his a little too hard, downing the last of her beer. “Now I gotta go chase down my absentee fiancé, not that I haven’t actually enjoyed talking to someone normal who won’t invite me to knitting club or baking club or whatever the rich housewives do for fun.”

Mal didn’t want to be rude but she was getting drunk, flirty, and so, so stupid. Negan was fucking pretty too, but obviously older than Philip, hardened, and so different and the same all at once. It was hard to hit on the head why. 

Right on cue, there was that rich, deep chuckle again, reverberating off the walls. He took the unsubtle hint though and pushed himself off the countertop, standing upright. “Alright Princess. But you know what the rich housewives do, don’t you?” Mallory gave him a look of pure confusion instantly, her tipsy brain slower to process. “They do the toyboy gardeners. Pick yours carefully in like, five, ten years. Get one that washes his hands after pulling up poison ivy. I’ll tell you the story next time.”

Mal turned to dump her bottle in the trash. “Oh Jesus, I don’t wanna know.”

“Pain in the ass, right?” Negan smirked once more, giving her a quick glance up and down. “Guess we’ll see each other round the back yard. Don’t forget the string bikini; I’m a poor, lonely widower after all, you gotta feel sorry for me.” 

***

It wasn’t until an hour later when Mallory, busy shepherding out drunk people with boxes of leftover desserts, got a message on her phone from Philip. As if the four words in the entire text could make her feel any less alone, as if they could make up for everyone asking where he was, as if they could diminish her worry. _‘Be home late. Emergency.’_ They were meant to make her feel better. But everywhere was a mess, trash and bottles, paper plates and plastic cutlery still scattered around. There was even a weird, brown stain on the white rug in the living room, but she really didn’t care. It’d be better tomorrow, when he was home and the only sick feeling in her gut was the hangover.

At 2.45 am, he still wasn’t home. 

Mal had toyed with the idea of calling him she’d stopped herself. Philip had always warned her about calling when he was gone, that he’d ring her first and never to call him. That firm line remained in place, every damn day she’d known him, and it was one she wasn’t yet willing to cross.

Their bedroom was bathed in inky darkness, the kind of quiet and calm that usually soothed her instead made her see shapes in the dark, made her heart race and slow with every lingering worry. Egyptian cotton sheets wrapped themselves tightly around her as she stared at her phone screen, waiting for something magical to happen. Maybe if she stared hard at it, something would happen. Instead, it just repeated 2.45am like she was stuck in a loop.

2.45 am.

2.46 am.

Every minute dragged into the next, into the next and the next and fear twisted inside her guts, twining around and around. Mal hated it; the sick worry in her stomach, the fear of her waking up to a cop at her door with questions she didn’t know how to answer.

Mallory had loved Philip before he’d even said a word to her. Mal had loved Philp before she knew a lot of things, and when she did know, they just didn’t matter. He kept her safe, kept her and their lives away from _it_ as much as he could. It was all he was trying to do, protect her against the world and give her everything she could need. But was this how her life was going to be now; alone in a cold bed, getting sick of being on a knife’s edge, checking her phone every thirty seconds and hoping?

3.08am… 3.11am.

Half asleep from sheer exhaustion, Mallory felt Philip’s heavy weight against her back as he slid into bed behind her, the mattress pushing them together. Warm arms encircled her waist until she grasped him back tightly, their fingers laced together in a desperate act of relief, the burden lifted. Darkness dissolved slowly back from her head until it was replaced only with comfort of home. Neither said a word for a moment and Mallory could finally let herself breathe.

“You’re mad at me,” he muttered against her neck after a few moments, his voice rough and rugged. “I didn’t mean-”

“Don’t talk about that now,” she replied, shuddering as she took a breath. “Me being mad doesn’t matter, it doesn’t change anything.”

Philip shifted behind her, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “I don’t take joy in it, Mallory…” he asserted. “It’s a job, same as any other. I just wish I hadn’t left you alone here with the neighbours. Thought I might’ve come back to see you’d murdered them all.”

Mal snorted softly, her eyes closing now that she could rest. “Good thing I got them out of the house then. It was fine though, we have one kinda cool neighbour I talked to for a while.”

“We do?”

“Yeah, he’s one door over. I think he was looking for you, actually, but you’d, y’know, disappeared by then.” Her smile was lazy, carefree to the world. “He knew your name.”

There was a silence behind her, and Philip shifted slightly, tightening his grip around her waist. “You talk to him?”

Yawning, Mallory settled into her pillow, finally ready to fall asleep in his strong grip. “Mmmhmm. His name’s Negan; scruffy, tall guy. D’you know him?”

She had no idea what it would start. She had no idea how it would end.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mallory grows closer to Negan after a scare or two, and she starts to realise exactly who Philip Blake is to everyone except her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented or left kudos on the first chapter. I won't lie, my actual job has kind of broken me but working on this has given me something creative to come back to. I have so many ideas bouncing in my head.
> 
> Thanks to Megan for Beta'ing for me again and for kicking my ass. I thank you for it, profusely.

_Everyone’s history hid secret, salacious stories they didn’t want to be found. Mallory had never looked too deeply into her family’s stories, their histories or ancestors but there was bound to be murder, crime, bigotry, adultery, witchcraft. It was better not to know, she thought. They were secrets for a reason, buried deep beyond with hope to be forgotten. Mallory’s own secrets, she would make sure, would be buried deep in the snow drifts of the decades to come. The last two years would disappear into myth and rumour, when her real life could finally begin. At least, that was what she told herself. Nobody would know what had happened._

_But she’d never forget. It was easy to lie to strangers, to people you loved, lie to the whole world, but never yourself. Philip Blake and Negan would always be in her head, twisting things around vines intending to strangle her._

_The blood on her shirt was dried now, crusting where it had congealed and soaked into the cotton. The fabric was stiff and itching at her skin no matter how she sat or how she tugged it away from her wound. At least the rookie had given her a blanket and something to eat._

_As Mallory tugged at the blanket around her shoulders, she saw Philip from the corner of her eye through the smudged office window. His face was pale and quietly calm, but she could see the storm behind his eyes breaking through bit by bit, building the floods against weak tide barriers. Cuffs arounds his wrists, his back straight and guarded as he was frogmarched through the precinct. He was covered in blood too, splatters and spray across his chest and his stoic face._

_Mal’s stomach twisted. It had to be over or she wouldn’t see another day. The skip of her heart beat quicker, thumping louder and louder in her ears, the bile rising in her throat as she remembered the sick crunch and the coppery taste. The bullet wound in her shoulder burned. Please let it be over. Make them go away. Let it be buried._

_“How much longer?” Mallory asked quietly, almost reluctant to break the comforting silence. There were a million eyes on her, watching, waiting._

_“Half hour still. I’m sorry to keep you like this, but the Sheriff’s real interested in talking to you,” he replied offhandedly. “He’s driving all the way out here from Alexandria just to hear what you gotta say.”_

***

As it turned out, life in organised crime was really fucking mundane, day-to-day. At least it was if you were just the wife; pushing a shopping cart down the aisles of a grocery store, trying to hunt down the last block of cookie dough so you could pretend you’d made them from scratch became fun. It wasn’t like Mallory was actively trying to impress Mrs McClusky, it was just an easier life than admitting she couldn’t give a shit about learning to bake. Eating cookie dough was better than eating cookies anyway, and anyone who felt otherwise was an alien from another planet. Or some germaphobe afraid of salmonella. What was life without risk? She supposed that counted equally in either eating raw cookie dough or kind-of stalking your next door neighbour to the local Publix to find out more about him.

Philip hadn’t said another word about Negan, or how they were meant to know each other, and it didn’t seem as if she was likely to get any straight answer. Maybe stalking was a harsh word. Following seemed better, in her head. It hadn’t been particularly intentional – they’d needed groceries and shopping was the one thing you’d never catch her fiancé do in a million years. Mallory was almost glad of the peace and quiet, alternating between grabbing healthy snacks and real food, and whole-ass boxes of chocolate covered Oreos and cheese dip.

No. Not stalking. Negan had just _been_ there. Kind of. It wasn’t as if he was difficult to spot, given how tall he was and the beaten leather on his shoulders. She was trying to keep her own head down as she pushed her little cart behind him, wheels squeaking like traitors. What the Hell was he buying, anyway?

“It’s spaghetti and a bottle of bourbon, Princess,” the man himself said, still reading the back of a jug of lemonade, decidedly not looking at her. “In case you were wondering while you’re being a creepy little creeper about the Publix.”

Mal jumped out of her skin. “You… uh… uh…” she stammered, “… might wanna get the name brand lemonade if you’re worried about sugar. Home brands always have more.”

He turned finally, leaning on his cart as if his upper body couldn’t be supported by his spine. “Didn’t know you cared.” Negan threw the jug of home brand into his own cart. “You obviously don’t have to worry about sugar. I might have to come confiscate the Oreos you got there, way too good for a creeper, even a hot one. Hand ‘em over.”

“Over my dead body,” Mallory warned, smacking his hand as he reached for her cart. “I better get going then. See ya!”

She made to dash off, but he leaped and grabbed the side of her cart by the wire. “Oh no, no, no, no, no you don’t,” he grumbled, tugging her back. “Not getting off as easy as a girl on Howard Stern. You following me around the grocery store?”

His hand was still wrapped around the wire. No escape, Mallory. “Like I’d be so bored I’d be stalking my neighbour and his groceries. Yeah, real believable that one.”

“Liar, liar, tits on fire. Kinda sounds like that’s exactly what you’re doing,” he eyed her for a moment as if she’d murdered his dog but broke out into a grin and a laugh before long. “Jesus you’re so fucking easy.”

“Oh, ha fucking ha,” Mal replied sarcastically, taking her cart back from him with an easy yank, though he let go almost instantly. “It’s not like I know a lot of people here…”

Negan grabbed his own cart and began pushing it forwards, following her up the aisle. “Still? Fucking fuckity fuck, you really are bored, aren’t you? I don’t bite, not if you don’t want me to,” he said, his pace slowing as they walked. “Can, if you’re into that shit.”

Her eyes rolled slightly at his attempts to rattle her. “No, I am not into your shit. Just getting cabin fever at home and I-”

“I see your lips moving and it’s like you’re not saying anything. You talk way too much when you’re nervous. We can be friends if you want, Mallory. If the old ball buster doesn’t care.”

Something about that ruffled her, the weird insinuation behind it completely baseless. “Philip doesn’t get to say who I’m friends with,” she said casually, shrugging. “We’re neighbours. You seem cool. We could be friends.”

“Seem?” Negan’s eyes bugged in abject disgust. “Shit, I just seem cool? Stick a goddamn knife in my heart because that’s a less painful way to wound me. I’ve been going for charming, ruggedly handsome, hot as fuck, and hilarious, but if we’re only up to ‘seems cool’, I may as well quit while I’m ahead. And I’m definitely taking your fucking Oreos.”

“If it helps, you’re a high level of cool,” Mal added, protecting her cookies as she stopped at the end of the aisle to grab cereal. She tossed a box of Raisin Bran into her basket robotically. “Maybe like a high medium at least, you’ve got potential.”

But Negan just grunted a little, staring into her basket instead of giving another of his not-so-snappy retorts. To her confusion, he reached into her cart and pulled out the cereal she’d just tossed in there. “Fucking Raisin Bran? Really?”

Shrugging, she grabbed the box out of his hand again, dumping it back in the basket. “Philip likes it, okay? He has it every day. I’m wishing I’d never stalked you in the first place now.”

He broke out into laughter, head shaking as he reached for the Lucky Charms beyond her, tossing the box over his head into his cart like a pro. “Fuck a duck, Philip Blake eats Raisin Bran. Makes sense since he’s the human equivalent of drywall…”

“No, he’s not, you don’t know him,” Mal defended, bristling. “He just likes it, it’s only cereal, for God’s sake.”

“Every damn day, right? No matter what?” Negan said, turning around the corner. “Cereal ain’t cereal without that red dye, piss yellow food colouring and marshmallows,” he called from the corner. “Marco!”

“Polo!” Mallory dashed to keep up. “Yeah, well, everyone has weird habits.”

Laughing again, Negan leaned forward over his cart. “That’s his weirdest habit? Rabbit turd cereal for breakfast on the reg?”

“I am definitely not talking about this,” she said, shaking her head. “You’ll get my ass in trouble.”

Resolved, Mal walked forward and went to the shelf a little ahead, grabbing a box of condoms and burying them in her cart before Negan could even notice. At least he was talking to her though. An actual human being, not someone on the internet with similar hobbies and interests. Twitter was a bitch sometimes, and you could starve for want of intelligent conversation: he seemed like kind of a prick, but he was funny, and knew Philip so he couldn’t be that bad to talk to. Definitely fucking trouble though.

The man himself caught up to her swiftly once she was nearly a full row ahead, having lingered near the razors. “Hey, wait up!” he called, jumping on the back of his cart and riding it to catch her. Other people jumped out of the way, mumbling under their breath though none said a word aloud.

“What are you, five years old?” Mallory said, frowning in confusion as he came to a sudden halt in front of her. “What is it?”

“Million dollar question. Super-duper fucking important: should I shave?” he asked her. “I know, I know, you shouldn’t mess with perfection but do girls like it? Stubble burn around the thighs?” he grinned lasciviously. “I’m willing to sacrifice for the greater good.”

Negan tilted his jaw for her to look at his face and the thickening layer of stubbly beard growing in, like he just didn’t care. Mal just shook her head, the idea just sounding wrong. “No, don’t you dare. I like it,” she admitted. “Maybe a trim, but if you wanna shave, wait for summer.”

“So, we _are_ admitting that I’m perfect just the way I am?” Negan fixed her with a semi-serious stare before grinning again. “Or that you like stubble rash on your delicate bits?”

This friendship was definitely a mistake.

“That just sounds painful, honestly,” Mal winced, biting her lip. “Swing and a miss there.”

His eyes sparkled in mirth. “Well, I’m not known for great aim.”

Mallory had to keep herself from smiling. They walked down the last aisle and she checked her list, crossing off what she’d picked up along the way and making a mental note to cut back on sweets. Her eyes darted to the last thing on the list, but now wasn’t the time or place to pick it up. She could get that… item somewhere else, away from prying eyes and big mouths and weird senses of humour.

“So, I never asked, how’d you know Philip?” she said as she made her way to the checkout lane.

Negan was quiet for a moment, letting her pile her things on the conveyor belt. “He didn’t tell you after the party?”

“No,” she replied distractedly, burying the condoms as much as she could so he didn’t make some sarcastic remark about them. “Slipped my mind the next morning.”

“Eh, you should ask him yourself first,” he muttered, putting his few – mostly junk food and alcohol – purchases on the belt behind hers. “Ask him, then tell me what he said. I’m real fucking curious, you know.”

It wasn’t until ten minutes later, as she was loading her bags into her car, that Mallory decided Negan and Philip had the same weird, evasive streak. Both of them had treated her like an idiot, as if she hadn’t already figured out _where_ they knew each other from. It was just the specifics she was desperate for; whether Negan was someone to trust or not, whether each even liked or respected the other. It’d make her home life a lot less boring if there was a person next door she could talk to, occasionally, honestly and openly.

Mal sighed and slammed the trunk of her car shut with a shudder, pulling her purse higher on her shoulder. She pushed the cart back and had turned to walk back to her car when she felt her purse being almost ripped from her arm, her whole body stumbling backwards in a flash of adrenaline.

“Hey!” she cried out, managing to grab the strap just before it disappeared. There was a kid holding the bag tightly, struggling with her for it, back and forth. His eyes were a little sunken and dark, but he couldn’t have been more than 19 or 20. “Let go!”

Her arm burned as she held on tight to her fucking property – her keys, her phone, the photos of her mother, her dad too. Mallory yanked hard as she could, and the kid was pulled into her with the force, knocking the wind with her as she went tumbling backwards to the ground. Her ass hit the asphalt with a thud.

“Fuck you, lady!” the kid grunted, swinging his fist and hitting her in the nose with a sickening whack. Mallory reeled but kept hold of the purse as tight as she could, determined to not have her day ruined by an annoying little prick.

But there was blood, a lot of blood, immediately gushing from her nose, her face throbbing painfully. “Shit!” She could feel her fucking pulse in her fucking face. He scrambled to grab the purse off her again, grabbing the strap.

“Fucking let go, crazy bitch!” he seethed, his eyes wild and desperate and confused, pupils blown dark.

Mallory grunted deeply in pain as he kicked her in the gut enough to wind her but too weak to break a rib. So, he was a pussy about being a mugger, too? “Fuck…”

She peered up, expecting to see the kid running off in the distance with her purse but there was only the sound of coughing and spluttering. Negan stood above her; a whole wiry, strong arm wrapped tight around the kid’s throat, his eyes cool and calm. As she pulled herself to her feet, Mallory picked up the purse that had fallen in between them, leaning on her car to catch her breath.

“You got a habit of attracting assholes, you know,” Negan grunted, kicking the kid’s legs from underneath him, forcing him to kneel on the hot tarmac. “You, however, want to consider the options ahead of you, kid. You can either be a cock-sucking little junkie prick for the rest of your life, beating up women for spare cash, or you can apologise to this one and reconsider your worthless, shithead life. All up to you kid. We got free will, right, Mallory?”

“I do, at least,” she said, smiling almost sadistically at the sight before her because it was good to see Karma play out in front of your eyes. Negan’s arm seemed to loosen a little to let the kid talk.

“Fuck you, bitch!” her mugger spit out, stupidly.

“Wrong answer,” Mal whispered coldly. She swung her leg up and kicked the kid in the crotch as hard as she could, happy as he cried out in pain, coughing and spluttering. Searing heat of pain was now coursing across her stomach, but it had been worth it. “Now?”

Negan was grinning now, glancing at her. “What’ll it be, piss-pants?” he asked. “Gonna apologise?”

The kid was quiet for a while, still spluttering as Negan’s grip around his throat tightened. The kid tried to pry Negan’s arm off his throat as his face was turning purple and Mallory was about to stop Negan, to tell him to just let the idiot go. Instead Negan leant into the kid’s ear and whispered. It wasn’t more than a few words she couldn’t really hear, but it was obvious. In an instant, the kid dropped his hands and looked up at her, his eyes now wide and full of fear.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, please, please forgive me,” he pleaded. She couldn’t help but feel a little too gleeful at the begging, as delicious as it tasted in her mouth. “I won’t do it again.”

Mallory didn’t need to know what Negan had said. “Get the fuck out of here. Probably out of town if you know what’s good for you,” she said lowly, wiping the blood off her face on the back of her hand. She tilted her hand slightly and Negan dropped the kid in an instead, the boy crumpling to the floor. He found his feet and ran off before she could even fuck blink. Coward.

After a moment, Mal took a breath. Her whole body was starting to shake with adrenaline and shock, the pain now coming through across her face and her stomach. She slumped exhaustedly against the car, digging a Kleenex out of her purse. She touched her nose and though it didn’t feel broken, exactly, something was going to be sore. Taekwondo hadn’t been enough. For the first time, Mal was thankful that Philip wasn’t in town to see it – hopefully she’d get lucky and he’d not make a fuss. Fat chance, in reality.

Negan took the tissue from her hand and looked her up and down, his eyes angry still. “I’ll drive you home, you need an ice pack or some shit before your face turns into a beach ball.”

How could she say no to that? “My saviour…” Mallory muttered, smiling as he helped her up again. 

*** 

Her face hurt like a son of a bitch even a week later. The bruising had come out, but no icepack could stop it from looking like she’d been punched in the face with a brick or something. It made the self-defence classes seem pointless. At least she hadn’t needed to go sit in a hospital bed for a few hours waiting to be told what she already knew. Three years nursing training did count for something.

The grocery store had, sadly, been the ultimate highlight of the two weeks that Philip had been gone. Days would trickle from streams to rivers to oceans, boundaries lost on the current. It was different when Philip was there. They’d stay in bed _together_ ; talk, fuck, bicker and tease, go running, go places and create a life made of boring, mundane, ordinary things fun and exciting. It was kind of shit when the most excitement she had was being clocked in the face by a high teenager. She hadn’t seen shit of Negan again either, not that that mattered. Maybe it did. 

By the end of April, she was sick of running alone in the mornings six days a week. By the end of April, she had counted more days kissing Philip goodbye more often than hello. By the end of April, she was starting to believe that this was life now.

What girl had ever dreamed of being a wife of a mobster? Nobody. Still, she had never thought those kinds of people would be like _him_ ; it was easy to see how you’d slip under the radar of the local cops _._ Philip was sweet, kind, caring, funny, charming. Perfect. He was fucking perfect. He _was_ perfect except for the guns, except for the bloodstained shirts and the cold sweat he would break into in the middle of the night when he thought she was asleep. Mal saw so much pain, so much doubt in him sometimes and in a blink of an eye it would be gone, as if it didn’t exist, as if she’d dreamt it up and was going slightly mad. It was hard to tell if he was getting used to violence or just getting better at hiding the guilt.

Life was both boring and chaotic enough with two of them. What would it be like with more? Maybe that was why, at 9.03pm on 27th April, she was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, hoping and praying that the pregnancy test in her hand was negative.

Children were a ‘someday’ thing; it wasn’t supposed to be now, not now, not when things were just settling in, not when she wasn’t there yet. The timing was just wrong, wrong, wrong, and no other reason at all. Children would bring so much complication, so much more work on her part and pain and worry, things she wasn’t prepared to be responsible for. If there was a screaming baby, there’d be no more going back to school, no singing, no job, no life other than the kid. Philip would do what he always did, ignore the risk in pursuit of the reward because he had wanted a real family forever – a whole army of Blakes. No. It just wasn’t the right time, that was it.

Tears were threatening to sting her black eye as she grabbed the empty packaging. Mallory checked and checked – five, six, seven times – that she was reading it right. Negative. It was definitely, 100% negative. No baby. No baby.

“Oh thank _fuck_ …” she whispered to nobody.

Her chest rattled with her deep breath and she threw the test in the sink next to her, just wanting it gone. It would be okay. She was fine, just stressed from the mugging and the almost-broken nose and being paranoid. False alarm. Should there have been guilt or sadness? Instead relief was a high making her giddy. She wasn’t fucking pregnant.

Pushing herself off the edge of the bathtub, Mallory got her shit together and shoved the test and the leaflet back into the box, never to be seen again. Philip couldn’t know, he just couldn’t; too many questions and big talk she wasn’t ready to have. No. She just crumpled up the box as tight as she could, thinking about where she could throw it out quickly. A week she’d been putting off peeing onto a plastic stick and of course she’d left it to the last minute before he’d be coming home.

It was impossible. She couldn’t leave it in the house, not even the trash. Philip would find it, because she could never keep a thing to herself without him finding out. She couldn’t hide it in a drawer or closet because it was inevitable, he’d hunt it like a bloodhound.

As she ran down the stairs, her heavy feet thudded loudly. It was getting dark outside now, pretty much, the sun had only maybe a half hour ago, but it was definitely getting darker. Nobody would care, nobody would even see if she just quickly dashed and threw the crumpled box in their outside trash. Philip wouldn’t even think to look in there, right?

Heart rattling, she went through to the kitchen and slid the back door open, stepping onto the back porch. The air on her skin was cooler now the heatwave had passed over them; lights were on all around the block, but nobody was going to pay attention to some little trophy wife doing housework in the evening, she was sure. Mallory’s heart was in her throat in the stillness of the early night – Negan’s house beside theirs was dead in its darkness, no light or sound or movement at all, like a monolith in the twilight. Twice she’d knocked on the door to say thank you for what he’d done, and he hadn’t been there – she’d resorted to sticking a note through the mail slot instead.

Wait, where were the trash cans? Shit. Their collection day had been _today_. The big cans were in the front of the house, not the back. Oh Jesus.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…” Mallory whispered sharply to herself. The cardboard packet crumpled even more as she twisted it in her hand. “Shitty shit-shit.”

As if on cue, like a waking nightmare, Mal heard a car in the distance and she half-ran down the passageway to the right side of the house in her bare feet. The car was getting closer, but she couldn’t see it, she couldn’t see anyone or anything in the entire street, as if everyone had chosen to turn off all the street-lights at once. It was a frantic game of hide and don’t seek.

There were the garbage cans, shiny and silver and on the other fucking side of the house to her, right there on the goddamn driveway. No way she’d be able to run to the front of the house without getting seen. How fucking suspicious would that be? Dumping one box into a whole damn ass trashcan by running from the side door?!

Tires screeched. Her whole body jumped.

“No, no, no, no, no, no…”

Panicked, she ran and dumped the test kit over the wall and into a hedge, the whole thing a blur. Headlights glinted at the very end of the block and she darted straight back the way she’d came, slipping into the kitchen and slamming the back door shut before even registering what had happened. It was done. It was gone. Mallory could just go get it in the morning, super early, slip in before anyone at all was awake. Burn it. Shred it. Put it through the garbage disposal in the kitchen sink and throw out the kitchen sink. Anything. Anything.

Why was she sweating?

“Mallory?”

Hearing footsteps coming towards her, she grabbed the dishcloth from the sink and wiped clean countertops over and over. At least she was messy from the panic attack she was about to have.

“Hey, didn’t hear you come in,” she said a little breathlessly, trying to sound nonchalant. Philip stood in front of her, looking as frazzled as she felt. “Want a drink?”

“Please, I-” Philip stuttered, finally looking up at her face. His expression fell in an instant. “Wanna tell me what that’s about?” his voice was cold but calm and he dashed towards her, hands outstretched.

Trying to pull away and failing miserably, Mallory dropped rag on the countertop. “It’s nothing, I’m fine-” she muttered, swatting half-heartedly as he cupped her face in both of his rough palms. “It was like a week ago.”

Philip’s eyes were narrowed now but trained intently on her bruised cheek and black eye. “Who punched you?” he asked, finally dropping her cheek as she batted at him again.

“I…” she hesitated. What was the point in lying? “I nearly got mugged outside Publix. It was like a week ago and I’m fine and nothing got stolen or anything…”

“You didn’t call me,” he muttered gently, peeling her hair away from the bruising. “Did you see their faces?”

“Yeah, it was just some tweaker kid, looking for a quick score. He got a lucky punch in, that was all.”

His face appeared to calm but she could still see the anger in his eyes lighting like fire. “Self-defence classes worked then?”

Mallory didn’t know why she lied. Perhaps it was just easier than having to re-live the whole being rescued thing. “Yeah. Kick in the crotch will do wonders, you know. Want that drink?”

Before Philip could even answer, she went to the liquor cabinet, pulling out his favourite Lagavulin whiskey and handed him the glass, putting the bottle on the countertop.

Her traitorous heart was still pounding in her chest, threatening to give her away on her multiple lies if she didn’t calm down. Lying hadn’t really been her strong suit and this felt too much. How did criminals do it? “I’m sorry I didn’t save you dinner.”

Philip drank down most of the whiskey, still staring intently at her face. “It’s fine, I got some on the road,” he muttered. “Long day. Long month.”

Mallory tried to nod to agree, her guilt dissipating. “You wanna… talk about it?” she asked hopefully, wanting to steer things away from her misadventures.

He didn’t say a word for a moment. Never had he ever actually told her about his trips, about what he’d done or how he was dealing with it. Maybe he just wasn’t dealing at all. “I just wanna collapse on the couch with my girl,” he muttered, putting the glass onto the counter and pulling her into his arms. “Just sit, talk about nothing and nothing.”

“Sounds alright, I guess,” Mal grinned teasingly, hugging her arms around his torso. She was still in a grey vest top and denim shorts, her feet damp from the grass and the dirt. “Come on.”

Stepping apart, her hand reached out and was engulfed by his as she led him to their living room. It was dim and quiet, warm and homey and made her feel comfortable. This was how life should be: unchaotic, quiet, simple. 

“Sorry I didn’t give much notice I was coming home,” Philip said, slumping down on the grey couch with an audible groan.

“I’m just glad you’re home,” she replied, kneeling next to him on the couch with her ankles crossed. Shit, he really did look so… gone. Sad. It broke her fucking heart and made the guilt of lying to him ten times worse. “I miss you.”

His head lay back on the couch cushion, eyes staring at the ceiling. “I know, honey. I wish there was another way, but there’s… not. Not yet. Soon. I’ll figure it out and I’ll be home more.”

Just to hear that, whether it was true or not, was a relief. It was better having him home than her being on her own, rotting away by herself from standing water. “We should take a vacation when we can. Maybe like Paris.”

“Milan,” he smiled warmly, turning his head slightly to look at her. “Florence. Prague. Venice. Anywhere.”

“Martha’s Vineyard,” Mallory beamed in return, the happiness seeping back into her mind. “That cute lakeside cottage, the little lobster shack we went to our first time on vacation.”

“All the places in the world to see, and you wanna go back to Martha’s Vineyard and eat lobster rolls again?”

“Yeah I wanna go back, dummy,” Mal said, leaning her head on her hand. “I like the clean air and the people and holding your hand and touristy stuff we did. I liked it. I fell in love with you there.”

He frowned a little at her, though there was no anger in it now. “You never told me that before.”

She shook her head slightly. “My life back then was cities and fumes, sick people and their problems, day after day after day. I loved it, don’t get me wrong, but I’d never even left the state before. It was just so different from flu pandemics and people coming in swearing they had Ebola,” Mallory laughed softly as he smiled. “And you were different there too. You listened to me, really listened about what I was going to be in life, and you didn’t laugh. Just listened.”

Philip’s eyes rolled over her face for a moment. “I don’t listen now?”

The realisation stuck in her throat like her panic had earlier. “Not like that. I… I don’t like doing nothing here. It’s all day, the same, every day. I miss the cities and the fumes and the people too.”

“You miss people vomiting at your feet? And asshole doctors who don’t listen because you’re a nurse?”

“Yeah,” Mal muttered. “I do, I do miss it. I wanna go back to school, I wanna be a nurse again. One day.”

Philip made to get up, but she tugged him back down to the couch with a sharp yank, enough to stop him running away. “Mallory, we talked about this…”

“What did I say about listening?” she said, fixing him with her serious glare. “I didn’t know how much I missed it until it was gone, and I know now.” Her eyes pierced into his, willing for him to give her this, give her something to be on her own terms.

“Alright,” Philip said eventually. “Go back to nursing school, finish up your training where you left it. But it can’t be forever, you know that. We can’t raise a family and both work, and I can’t let my children be raised by strangers. We agreed on that, didn’t we?”

“Yeah,” she said, swinging over and sitting on his knees to make sure he didn’t try to back away. “Okay, agreed.”

“Okay?” he repeated, staring into her eyes.

“Okay.” His gaze enraptured her in its power, his ability to stare into a soul had been like nothing she’d ever known. “…after the wedding. I can go back to school after the wedding.”

He grinned at that. “Alright,” and leaned up and cupped her un-bruised cheek lightly, capturing her lips with an overly gentle kiss. “But first, I’m gonna take you everywhere. See the world. Prague, Milan, London, Sydney, Venice, Florence, Paris…”

“Martha’s Vineyard?” she muttered against his lips, forgetting why she ever worried about life in the first place. “And Coney Island.”

“Anywhere in the world, just you and me,” he replied absently, running a thumb over her chin.

“Except we can’t, can we? Go travelling, I mean,” she said after a moment, dropping her voice to a whisper. “Because of your work.”

His hand dropped from her face slowly, fingers instead grazing her knee. “We’ll figure it out.”

It was better not to push, she thought. It was better to let things be, while he was home and here for her to have to herself. “You know…” Mallory said after a moment, “I… didn’t actually beat the mugger to a bloody pulp,” she admitted, biting her lip. “Turns out, taekwondo doesn’t stay in your muscle memory if you haven’t done it in a decade.”

To her relief, he laughed. “Oh really, could have fooled me with your skills, honey. Someone step in?”

“Yeah… Negan, surprisingly,” she said softly. “The next door neighbour guy? He was asking after you again, seemed like he knew you. I tried to say thanks in person, but he’s not been home, I guess.”

There was a silence for a moment. The fingers that had been playing with her curls stopped slowly and retreated. “Good thing he was there but you shouldn’t trust that guy, he’s not what he seems, Mallory.”

Whatever she’d been expecting, it hadn’t been that. Time to not beat about the bush anymore. “He works with you, doesn’t he?”

Philip ran a hand over his face, sitting up too, though he seemed reluctant. “It doesn’t matter, honey. Just trust me.”

“Why? Is he dangerous or something?” she muttered, remembering how calmly Negan had dealt with her mugger, like it was an average Tuesday for him.

“I promise you’re not in danger. Just don’t go blindly trusting him like you do everyone. Negan used to…” Philip seemed like he was reluctant to tell her the words, as if admitting them aloud meant he’d acknowledge his own deeds somehow. “Negan did the dirty work for years, okay? But now he doesn’t, hasn’t for two years nearly, so it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t matter.”

“Two years?” she thought back to her conversation with him. “He said his wife had died six months ago?”

“Lucille had cancer, from what I was told,” Philip replied a little more softly, looking up at her. “He’d been there for a lot longer than me. He’s practically family to _Her_.”

Ah yes. The infamous _Her_. Name was never to be spoken, like fucking Voldemort; Mal didn’t even know who _Her_ was, not really. Some myth she wasn’t sure existed.

“I see,” she replied, rubbing the end of his tie. “I don’t… it’s not me trying to stick my nose where it doesn’t belong-”

“I know, I know,” he said, sounding apologetic and weary. “Most people… they go through that kind of thing, and they learn from it, right? Your wife gets cancer, dies… you’re meant to feel bad. You’re meant to hate the world.” Philip swallowed thickly, looking at her as if it was all spilling out of his mouth without a filter. “I don’t think he changed at all. He is still the same competitive, sadistic asshole I knew. You shouldn’t come out of this life cleaner than you went in, but Negan did.”

“But he doesn’t matter,” Mallory said, loosening Philip’s tie idly. His eyes were icy and distant again, lost in his own worries, his own world. What had she let out of Pandora’s box? “He’s out. He’s nothing.”

Philip’s hand enveloped her wrist as she reached to take off his tie, his grip tight until his fingers spread over her forearm tenderly. “I’m glad he was there for you, I’ll give him that,” he said begrudgingly. “But he’s a nasty piece of work sometimes, Mallory. I don’t want you getting caught in that.”

All she could do was nod as he kissed her. 

***

Philip’s promises of staying home didn’t last long. Another few days, he was gone again to Chicago with a goodbye kiss. This time felt different. Thinking about what he was doing was making her want to run away to a remote island with him; no phones, no neighbours, no bosses or families. In all the months they’d been a couple, even the few they’d been living together, Mallory and Philip hadn’t spent more than a two week stint together without him disappearing for _Her_. It was part of the job, part of what he had responsibility for. So many families relied on Philip, for safety, for security, for income. It wasn’t like you could just take a vacation from that line of work, not when there was so much to do, she imagined. It probably didn’t help that she hadn’t been able to sleep much since he’d left. Mallory paced around the backyard late at night, every night, looking for the sleep that didn’t come.

It would be May in the morning and Mallory had settled on a queer feeling of tightness in her chest every time she thought about when Philip would be back. It felt like she’d read the entire internet as a distraction method, staying up until exhaustion would come and take her too.

And her face still fucking hurt.

Grass slipped between her toes in the still and the quiet of late night, fresh air surrounding and comforting, pool lights rippled the surface of the water. Some nights, she’d just swim until her limbs burned, doing lap after lap, beating her own record each time again and again. Tonight, it was just nice to pull her joggers up to her knees and dip her bare feet in, to swish the water around and see the patterns dance.

It was worse, somehow, knowing Philip hadn’t made her give up anything of her life before him. He hadn’t forced her out of nursing or made her stop singing. He’d given love and loyalty, plainly and simply, without condition… and it was as if something big that had been missing from her life clicked into place. She sank into loving this one, beautiful, charming man, and loved him still.

But it was 1am. May had come, and he wasn’t there. Sighing softly to herself, Mallory pulled her feet from the pool and stood up, leaving wet footprints as she went towards the shoes by the back door.

 _Thwack. Ping. Smack._

_Thwack. Ping. Smack._

The sounds came rhythmically, echoing hollow and faint. Sliding her shoes on, Mal crept over to the wooden fence at the edge of the garden and peeked over the top as slowly and carefully as she could into Negan’s back yard. He was… playing ping pong. By himself. At one o’clock in the morning.

He didn’t seem to notice the top half of her head popping up over the fence, staring at him like she’d caught him in a compromising position. Again. Negan was still thwacking the ping pong ball up against the wall, a table pushed up against the brick work so he could hit the ball over and over, looking as if he was barely thinking about it.

_Thwack. Ping. Smack._

_Thwack. Ping. Smack._

This felt wrong, somehow. Private. Stalking, again. His face wasn’t what she expected, eyes focussing on the ball even though they seemed distant at the same time. She should-

“You making a habit out of this?” Negan asked suddenly, not taking his eye off the ball. “If so, you should try and get a lot better at it. I can hear you thinking, Princess.”

Mal almost yelped, losing her footing slightly on the grass. “Sorry, I didn’t-”

“Yeah you did, again,” he replied dramatically, catching the ball in his wide palm with practiced ease. Negan turned to look at her half-face over the top of the fence panel. “Come play. The wall’s not giving me shit to work it, the lazy fucker. Could use someone decent, or with a hand.”

Honestly, she should have said no. Mallory should have turned her heel, apologised and gone to bed. But, for whatever reason – loneliness, boredom, insomnia – all she said was: “Okay.” She must have been insane, but after Philip’s warning, she’d not seen any damn sign of Negan being a psychopath. Just some lonely widower, same as any other, just maybe 20 or 30 years before it should have happened.

Negan had unlocked the gate for her and was pulling the table out from the wall when she made her way into his yard in her joggers and pyjama shirt. “You do know how to play, right? I got no fucking mind to teach tonight.”

“Who can’t play ping pong?” she replied, shaking the weird alien feeling from her head. It was fine. He wasn’t going to hurt her. Jesus, he’d saved her purse. “You sure you can keep up, old man?”

He snorted a little, shaking his head. “Tough talk coming from a girl in Muppet pyjamas.”

Mallory looked down: her t-shirt was indeed emblazoned with the Muppet Show, an old relic from college that had more holes than swiss cheese. “Don’t underestimate Miss Piggy, she’s a firecracker and is way more of a ball buster than you.”

“I hope so,” he grinned, eyes starting to sparkle. “No man alive would say no to Miss Piggy.”

As he tossed her a paddle, Mallory twisted it in her hand, letting the weight of the wood settle in her grip until it felt comfortable. She hadn’t played since maybe her last summer camp in school, but she had a feeling he’d annihilate her whether she was good or not.

Negan served the ball wordlessly, obviously going easy on her to start as it gently hit the table over and over. It was like he wasn’t even fucking trying, instead making her bounce from corner to corner.

 _Thwack. Ping. Smack._

“So, is there any reason you’re out here, playing ping pong at 1am?” she asked as he started to hit harder and harder.

“Now, I know I ain’t no fucking genius with a big dick PhD, Princess, but I’m gonna guess it’s for the same reason you were sneaking around the garden fence watching like a creeper again,” he looked up at her face for a second, catching her eye before refocusing on the ball. “Can’t sleep?”

The tactic worked and she missed the return, the ball skidding off the table and down into a barren flowerbed. Mal sighed in half relief and half frustration, catching a breath. “How’d you know?” she asked. How many people went for a walk in their own garden at night?

Negan plucked another ball from the pocket of his own sweats, bouncing it on the table for a second. “Wife used to do the same when I weren’t here, on those boring-ass road trips I used to take. She’d do the most random shit ever; put the canned food in alphabetical order, pressure wash everything in sight…”

Mal hit the ball back to Negan as he served it, finding herself zoning out on the rhythm. “She ever say how she stopped herself from worrying. I could really use that.”

To her surprise, Negan actually laughed, a short barking laugh. “You’re marrying Philip fucking _‘I’m the Governor’_ Blake and you’re _worrying_ about him?” his eyes narrowed for a moment before snapping up to her face and then back to the ball. “You do know who your boyfriend is, right? I fucking hate pussyfooting around all this gangster bullshit, Princess, and I really don’t have patience for metaphors, so we can just be honest with each other? Jesus, who the fuck even am I?”

Mallory grabbed the ball in her hand to stop it from skidding away as she missed a return. “I know some of it. He told me about you.” She eyed him warily before she was able to stop herself. “He never talks about… specifics.”

“And you don’t want him to,” Negan added, waiting for her to serve again. “So, what you fucking worried about that prick for? Get your big girl panties on. He’s not worried, neither should you be.”

“That stop your wife from worrying about you?” she said, a hint of spite in her voice.

“Hey, it got better,” he admitted, twisting his wrist around. “She had shit to worry about, I had shit to worry about, the fucking dog had shit to worry about. All of it was bigger than me and mine and she ended up giving zero fucks. Lucille was a teacher for better part of twenty years, God fucking knows why but she loved it. Loved that shit. Lived for it. She said a closed book never done anyone any good. Can’t learn if you can’t read it.”

“Thought you didn’t do metaphors?” she teased back. There were so many questions waiting to fall from her tongue about the job, things she didn’t want to know but also things she had to know, itching her skin and driving her insane.

Mallory caught glances at him as he hit back at her harder and harder and harder. She tried to keep up, lungs burning as she dashed around the table. Negan grunted and smashed the ball into the table, Mallory diving out of its way as it came for her bruised face.

“Shit!” she cried in frustration, having lost yet again. “That was not fucking fair! You know I look like Mike Tyson!”

“Just the game, baby girl. I got a lot of experience with swinging bats around without mercy,” he chuckled. “Someone’s used to people going easy on her. Spoiled brat syndrome.”

Mallory wanted to smack his smug face in with the ping pong paddle. “You’re lucky you’re bigger than me,”

“I’m bigger than _everyone_ in every way you can dream,” Negan grinned smugly; nevertheless, it gave her some pride that he was panting too, trying to catch a breath. “Getting fucking old, though.”

“That why you retired?” Mallory asked, wandering around the garden to pick up the few ping pong balls she could see. She figured it was her duty as the biggest loser around. “Getting too old for that shit?”

He took a breath, sitting on the long edge of the table as she dumped the ping pong balls into his awaiting hands. Negan shoved them back into his pocket, leaning back on the table. It creaked under his weight; the man was basically 98% legs.

“Nah, Lucille just hated what I did. Can’t blame her, can you?” Negan looked into Mallory’s eyes as she stood in front of him, his gaze lingering on the arms folded around her chest. “Thing about this shitty, shitty world… it’ll make or break you. I loved her, will still fucking love her until I am good and ready to die on my own fucking terms, and it almost wasn’t enough. Love of my worthless life.”

Mallory blinked. “But you didn’t break up?”

“Breaking up’s easy, real shit takes work. Talking, sharing… shit, that life,” his eyes sparkled as he looked into her face and she was enraptured. Negan’s voice dropped low and deep, making her lean in a little to hear. “You can’t know unless you live it, wade through turd rivers to taste fresh water. It’ll take you over and leave everyone you love wondering who you really are. It was about power, about order, it was… fucking incredible. God, I’m getting hard just thinking about it.”

She ignored his attempt to throw her off. “But you’re not going back.”

“Nopity nope, fuck that with a bag of dildos.” He replied simply. “I got lucky. Can’t expect this shit to go your way forever. Just wish it didn’t take the love of my life rotting away in front of my eyes for it to happen. We fought and we won, end of goddamn story. Lifetime should buy the rights to my story. Negan: Picture of a Tortured Big-Dick Genius.”

Despite herself, Mallory chuckled. Would Philip ever do something like that for her? Give up his dreams, his life, if it was even possible to walk away from the mob?

“You said I shouldn’t be worried about Philip. Why shouldn’t I be worried about Philip?” she asked softly. “It’s still dangerous.”

“Jesus, you have no fucking clue, do you?”

“Tell me then, Big-Dick Genius. Give me a clue!” she asked desperately. “I can’t keep imagining the worst case scenarios about what he’s doing or what’s happening. Everything in me is bouncing between being scared for him and scared someone will come after us, or both.”

Negan seemed to chew over the choice, leaving her dangling. “Now you want specifics? You’re asking me to tell you what a nasty piece of shit your fiancé is? That what you want to hear?”

“I want the truth,” she said simply. “I love him, but I think… I think I only love the part of him I’m getting. There’s this whole other side I don’t know and it’s killing me.”

He looked into her eyes again, staring for longer than was comfortable. “The man you know, the one you love, the one you wanna marry? That’s not the guy I knew. The Philip fucking Blake I knew, he’s more of a monster than you’d ever believe. You want the truth, Mallory? Ask him. If you’re brave enough. I ain’t telling you shit, because you can’t _deal_ with it. The truth will ruin you, and I can’t fucking be the responsible adult in this situation.”

Angry tears pricked at her eyes, but she refused to let them fall for Negan to see. Nobody would ever see her cry. “Fine. Okay. Fine.”

“I just can’t, Mallory,” Negan muttered, watching her face carefully. His expression softened and he rubbed his knuckles in his greying stubble that still peppered his jaw. “I can’t break your heart on his behalf. You’re too good of a person for me to do that.”

“You don’t know me,” she replied softly, running her teeth over her bottom lip. “How’d you know I’m a good person when you don’t know me?”

He smiled simply, without any smirk or mirth. “Because you worry, that’s how I fucking know. The good ones always worry.”

“What if he won’t tell me?” she whispered, almost afraid to ask. “What if I just get a closed door or-”

“Jesus am I your fucking relationship counsellor?” he chuckled, running a calloused hand over his face. “Dr Negan here, come lay all your relation-shit at my door?” He raised a brow. “Alright, do you a deal. He doesn’t tell you what he does, then you come back and I’ll answer anything you want. I got nothing to lose, right?”

The thanks got stuck somewhere in her throat and Mal just nodded. “You’re… you’re not what I expected.”

He did grin at that, standing up from the table. “What, ruggedly handsome and eminently fuckable?”

“No; honest.”

“Ouch.” Negan shook his head, standing up and pulling the table back to the wall. “Way to shoot me down.”

Mallory smiled a little as well, moving to help him slide the table back. “Gotta draw a line somewhere, right?” The table legs screeched a little across the patio as they set it back against the house.

“Oh, shit, wait, I got something for you,” he said suddenly, as if he’d just remembered. “Wait right there.”

It couldn’t have been more than half a minute he was gone, but she frowned in trying to think what it could be. Her face paled as he came back out a moment later; in his hand was a familiar, crumpled box. Her box.

Shiiiiiiit. She’d fucking forgot about the pregnancy test she’d dumped in his hedge.

“I… that’s not mine…” Mallory laughed awkwardly.

He raised a single brow. “You’re the only fuckable woman on this street, and the only woman under 50 on the block. And I’m not an idiot. It’s negative, in case you were wondering.”

Mallory swallowed and sighed, taking the test back from him, staring down at the crumpled, dirty cardboard box in her hands. “I know. Sorry. I just… panicked. If Philip knew, then he’d get excited, want to start trying, and I just-”

“Your business is your business,” Negan interrupted, stepping towards Mal, crooking two fingers up under her chin to tilt her head, his knuckles lingering under there. “But if you want me to take that back, I won’t say a fucking word about it. Not to Blake, not to nobody.”

Her teeth ran over her bottom lip, searching his dark eyes for trust, for friendship, for something more than just neighbourly help. Negan already knew, didn’t he? It didn’t matter. “Thank you,” she whispered, pressing the box into his hand. “You don’t have to do this. You’ve done me more than enough favours to last a whole lifetime.”

“I want to be useful,” he replied, voice deep. His hand still lingered, his thumb pressing on her chin. Negan’s eyes scanned her healing bruises, his eyes intent. Mallory’s face didn’t hurt as much anymore. “We can be friends. If you want,” he muttered.

“Right,” she replied, swallowing to get the dry feeling out of her mouth. “I’d like that, if we could be friends.” Neither made to move apart for a moment until Mal stepped away, glancing at him as her heart pounded out of her chest. “I’d say thanks for helping in the Publix but-”

“I got your note. Trust me,” he said, “I got way more pleasure out of that than you think.”

He just smiled back at her and Mallory knew she was in deeper trouble than she’d realised. 

***

The TV blared in the background the next morning, sun streaming through the windows as if the world had gotten over its funk alongside her. Mallory tucked her hair back behind her ear, tidying up the living room, waiting for Philip to walk back through their front door in a few hours with a thousand questions on her lips.

 _“Breaking news,_ ” the TV reporter said seriously, making Mallory look up from her housework. _“We have reports coming in this morning of the discovery of a body from a local underpass. The Police have identified the victim as that of 20 year old Connor Masterson of Williamsburg…”_

A picture flashed up on the screen. It was him. Her mugger. Dead. “Oh my god…”

_“The death is still being considered as unexplained, but an informant has told us tonight that the body was found with multiple fractures. The Police have so far refused to confirm or deny any suspicious-”_

Mallory scrambled for the remote and shut the TV off, bile rising at the back of her throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dude, even I don't know. Leave me a comment to get me through to chapter three!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you eternally to the best beta in the world, Megan. She kicked my ass when the first shitty, shitty draft of this hit her inbox. Send her some love too, or this would have been so. goddamn. bad.
> 
> Please leave a comment below and I will love you 3000.


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